


Made With Love

by runicmagitek



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Jon just needs a nap, Kind gestures, M/M, Mid-Canon, Mid-Season 2, Missing Scene, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Tea, but Martin at least makes delicious tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:07:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25729423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runicmagitek/pseuds/runicmagitek
Summary: Truth be told, Jonathan never told Martin to fetch him some tea. He also didn’t saynowhen Martin offered.Work continues to be stressful at the Magnus Institute and while Jonathan slaves over his work, Martin decides to do something nice for him.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 4
Kudos: 86





	Made With Love

Distant conversations intermixed with the hissing and banging from the kitchen. Curry marked the air—a welcomed reprieved from the stale aroma permeating the institute. Several interns passed by, blissfully— _hopefully_ —unaware of the evacuation from months ago. And there was Martin, examining the tea selection beside the soda fountain in the canteen.

Every day he grabbed the same blend of synthetic bergamot and lavender claiming to be earl grey. The cafe down the street housed better selections—better brewing methods, as well—but the price tag on even the smallest cup made him reconsider. His stash he amassed over time, thanks to his mum, would have contained _something_ suitable, but… well, it wasn’t right to keep it after what happened to his place; barely anything survived once he purged all items exposed to those worms.

But this wasn’t about what _he_ wanted; it was about finding the right tea for Jonathan.

Truth be told, Jonathan never told Martin to fetch him some tea. He also didn’t say _no_ when Martin offered. Sure, the outburst wasn’t exactly welcoming when Martin mentioned tea, but what happened… what they encountered and _survived_ … that had to plague one’s mind. And if Jonathan wasn’t intending on catching proper sleep in the immediate future, the least Martin could do was offer something else. Something he _could_ assist with.

Once he reached the canteen and faced the twelve options, the task loomed over him, far more daunting than he imagined. What did Jonathan even _like_ when it came to tea? Did he prefer African black or Chinese white or sencha green? How did he take it, even: with milk or cream? A cube of sugar or honey or a packet of that raw stuff? Or perhaps a slice of lemon sufficed? Did he require too much where one could argue it was no longer tea or did he prefer nothing at all? Or was he the herbal type, even if it wasn’t truly tea? If so, did he lean towards chamomile or berries or peppermint or ginger?

Martin heaved out a sigh, ignoring the woman to his left who shot him a strange look. Part of him wanted to buy one of each with a cup of hot water and let Jonathan decide, but his wallet cried at the mere idea. And what was the point in treating someone to tea when they had to prepare it themselves? Rubbing his eyes, Martin reconsidered the options, hoping a clearer solution presented itself.

_What would make Jon happy?_ Martin mused. He snorted a beat later; when was the last time he witnessed his boss content? Maybe a comfortable bed was better than a cup of tea—well, a mug of tea, to be precise—but that involved dragging Jonathan out of his office, out of the archives, and out of the institute. No, tea was a better, _safer_ option.

Maybe the exhaustion crept up on Martin when he scanned the glass jars holding individual tea bags. Whatever anxiety swirled in his stomach waned. Options blurred out of sight—the ones so few touched, thus barely restocked and possibly stale. Then the ones only consumable if coated with enough sweetness to hide the unsavory flavors.

He remembered his mum first teaching him how to make tea. They had mason jars of loose-leaf teas, which she instructed not to mix and match. He always helped her scoop the precise amount into tea balls while the kettle boiled water. Certain types required certain temperatures, which she offset with an ice cube or two in their mugs before pouring. She always gave him a wink when she did so, like it was their little secret.

“ _Keeps the milk cool, too,_ ” she had said.

Well, he wasn’t too sure about that part now that he was older, but some habits stuck around despite his efforts. Maybe it was better that way—something about recipes made with love. Martin hesitated while he prepped his ceramic mug with a splash of whole milk, a dollop of honey, and an ice cube. He wasn’t certain _what_ to feel towards Jonathan, other than worry over his growing paranoia, obsession, and insomnia. Being around him was like tiptoeing across glass shards. Even then, Martin still respected him. Perhaps out of fear of losing his job.

Or maybe there was something else.

Martin almost overflowed the mug with hot water while lingering on the thought of Jon. Balancing the almost-too-full mug to the counter, he retrieved a tea bag, set a timer on his phone, and steeped it.

Would Jonathan like it? Would he throw it at the wall and claim it to be a disgrace to all things called tea, even the herbal varieties? Would he yell at Martin for once again barging into his office unannounced while mid-recording? Or worst of all, would he accept the offer, only to leave it untouched on his desk until it turned cold? Martin shuddered at the final thought while twirling the tea tag in his fingers.

_Why should I care?_ he tried to reason with himself. _It_ _’s just tea._

It was. Just as it was steeped for exactly four minutes and not a second longer, as it was stirred until all contents mixed to a creamy complexion, as it was paid in full without concern of cost or reimbursement.

* * *

He knocked before entering. No reply. Not shocking, considering there rarely ever was, but Jonathan deserved the courtesy. The doorknob turned easily in Martin’s free hand and the door gave way to reveal Jonathan at his desk and _not_ hunched over a tape recorder.

He didn’t, however, register Martin’s presence until the door closed behind him. Wide eyes snapped up, lined with dark circles. Martin swore Jonathan hitched his breath. He hoped not; the last thing he wished to do was scare the poor man.

After visibly swallowing, Jonathan cleared his throat and sat up straighter. “What is it, Martin?”

“Oh, well… I, um….” Shuffling closer to Jonathan’s desk, he extended the mug. “I brought you some tea. It’s masala chai.” He paused. “Well, not _real_ masala chai. Just the stuff that’s at the canteen. I didn’t steep it in milk. Couldn’t, really. Not like they have a milk steamer handy. Probably not the best, either, but I….”

Jonathan raised a single eyebrow, staring at Martin instead of regarding the steaming mug.

Maybe he _did_ say no to the offer. Maybe he never _liked_ tea and Martin made it up and—

“But _what_?”

Martin was grateful he scooped out the excess liquid before leaving the canteen, fearing it would spill en route to Jonathan, or else the jolt from Jonathan’s sharp question would have splashed tea and scalded his hand. “It’s… well, I know you’ve been busy and haven’t left the institute much—”

“ _Martin_.”

“Look, if you’re not going to take care of yourself and get some _sleep_ already, I just….” He huffed and placed the mug on Jonathan’s desk, careful not to leave it beside spreadsheets and photocopies. Perhaps under those towering stacks was a coaster, but hell if Martin knew, anymore. “I thought you’d like some tea. You know, to help relax. Calm down, or whatever.” Another sigh, then, “You deserve a break as much as us, Jon.”

He pivoted to leave before Jonathan could initiate some lecture that had nothing and everything to do with a simple gesture of tea. Only his footsteps traversing the floor filled the room. Before Martin reached for the door handle, he paused and peered back.

Jonathan still looked at him with an expression Martin couldn’t read.

He flicked his gaze to the mug, then back to Jonathan. “If you could, uh… the mug. It’s mine. Whenever you’re done—”

“Return it to your desk,” Jonathan added, dry as ever with the hint of a partial eye roll. “Yes. I know.”

Martin quirked his lips and nodded. Then he left.

As the door clicked shut behind him, he waited for some phantom weight to lift from his being, now that the act was completed. Instead, his heart raced, sometimes vaulting into his throat to lodge there. He leaned into the door, unaware and unconcerned if Jonathan noticed the hinges groaning beneath Martin’s weight. After several deep breaths, Martin tilted his head, hoping to hear… something.

There was nothing. Not muttering, not yelling, not shattering. None of it.

“Just drop it,” Martin muttered as he pushed off the door and marched away. “You can’t fix him, anyways.”

* * *

He didn’t look up at his desk the following morning, preoccupied with flipping pages in his notebook with the week’s agenda. Scribbling out names of those he already contacted, Martin mumbled to himself while navigating his space. Everything had a home, from the pens to sticky notes to paper clips. He reached for a red pen without tearing his attention from his notebook when his fingers bumped into a solid object.

Pausing, he listened to the item teeter on the surface before settling back into stillness.

Martin blinked, then looked up.

His ceramic mug sat there. No tea inside—in fact, it was washed enough to banish some rather stubborn stains he couldn’t scrub away over the years.

But there was a note beneath it, comprised of one of Martin’s sticky notes and written in bold, black ink: _Thank you._

Martin held the piece of yellow paper in his hands and smiled. He stared at it long enough to forget the calls he had to make by nine in the morning. When he stirred again, Martin tucked the note into another notebook filled with his attempts at poetry, grabbed his mug, and left in search of tea.


End file.
